Hateful Desire

by Marianne Willis

  Thousands of fans resembled little ants, waving white hankies above their heads, clapping in beat to the loud intro music, and cheering their lungs out. The noise level wasn’t powerful, unlike his surround system at home, but enough to make the walls of the condo shake.

  From the corner of his eye, Amber charged into the room. His gaze roamed her sheer white blouse and tight black denim pants, disappointed a hot pink singlet was beneath the transparent top. Disappointment? No, he must not think of her that way. A few lines set her frown, and she pointed at the TV.

  “Lower the volume.”

  “What?” he teased, cupping his ear. “I can’t hear you.”

  “I’m being serious.” She stomped her foot, as if the little movement would make him cave.

  “The tip-off just started, baby. Can’t stand the noise? Go into your room.” He folded his hands behind his head. That should teach her to place him under a spell.

  The corner of her mouth twitched into a cruel smile. “You realise one click of my fingers will switch off the TV?”

  “Go ahead, witch.” He threw up his hands. “You’ve already taken my freedom.” And virtually my sanity. “What’s one more thing, right?”

  He dared a glance when she didn’t respond. She stared at the floorboards. Was that guilt in her expression? Without a word, she charged upstairs, the scent of green apples, pomegranate, and fury lingered behind. A door slamming shut echoed her annoyance, and he gave himself a mental high-five.

  In the kitchen, Lucas glowered, then stuck his nose into his little project. The warlock didn’t seem disturbed by the volume. Good, because he was not up for another member of the Johnson clan aggravating him. He reclined in a comfortable position to enjoy the game.

  He hadn’t watched any sports in a while, being so busy visiting the vampires in the southwest of France, then his mother’s family in Paris. Not to mention the gym occupied all his time. The relaxation was nice. Could the warlock manifest a cold beer? That would sure add to his good mood.

  “Come on,” he shouted at the television. “He’s open!”

  By the fourth quarter, he perched at the edge of his seat, and set aside the remote in case he accidentally crushed the plastic controller. Detroit with seventy-eight points, Memphis with eighty-five.

  Victory would soon be theirs, and in no time he’d have his own triumph over Amber. With three minutes left in the game, Mayo shot a three-pointer. “Yeah!” He leaped off the sofa.

  The warlock cheered in the next room.

  “I know, right? Grizzlies won 100-83,” he praised, peering into the kitchen. Had Lucas watched the match this whole time? From the warlock’s expression, and the strange bottle cradled in his hand, he wouldn’t say so. A purple liquid with some peculiar hot pink smoke gleamed in the flask.

  “I did it!”

  Chayton rubbed the back of his neck. “Wait, you’re cheering because of this voodoo juice, not the game?”

  Lucas nodded, snapping his attention to the flask. The way he gawked at the damn thing, one might assume Lucas’ first child had been born. Why the hell was he so proud?

  “What?” Loud steps thumped down the stairs. Amber sprinted beneath the archway and skidded before knocking into a chair at the dining table. A wide smile lit her face. “Lucas, is there news on Brianna?”

  “No.” Lucas shook his head. “I created a vanishing potion.”

  Vanishing potion? No wonder the warlock was so pleased.

  Amber’s grin wavered as if struggling to stay in place. She hugged her brother. “Congratulations.”

  Her cheerful tone did not fool Chayton. Tears lined her eyes, and devastation stamped her face. As if sensing him, she met his gaze, and they stared in silence. She then blinked, glanced away, and once again her lips broadened as she stepped out of her brother’s embrace.

  Lucas puffed out an excited breath. “After I clean the mess, we’ll head to Ma and Pa’s.”

  “Um,” she trailed off, perhaps conjuring up a lie. “I can’t leave the werewolf, remember?”

  “I know. He can tag along.”

  Rose-gold tresses swayed with the shake of her head. “I don’t want our parents meeting the man who’s threatened to kill me. Anyway, I have work to do before the clans arrive.”

  Lucas lost his grin. “You’re right. I guess I can show them tomorrow.”

  Amber waved her hand. “No. Go, I insist. I’ll be fine here alone.”

  Her brother blinked, gaze averted to the table. “No, I couldn’t leave you here…”

  “I mean it, Lucas. I’m fine. You went out this morning and nothing happened.”

  He nodded, examining his potion for the hundredth time. “Yes, but that was a quick trip to the mall. Ma’s house is an hour drive.”

  “We both know Chayton can’t hurt me,” she persisted.

  His shoulders sagged. “I’ll be a few hours. Are you sure you’ll be all right while I’m gone?”

  “Of course,” she half-laughed, backing up step by small step. “I…um, have to make some extra calls.”

  Chayton followed her into the living room, and watched her dash upstairs. He snatched the remote, and turned off the TV.

  Different instruments covered the kitchen countertop, an open case held several bottles with liquids, some clear and some coloured.

  Two books lay open, the pages tinged yellow, and the handwritten font had splats of ink within some lines. The Johnson Family spell books?

  He didn’t understand much about witches, but learned a long time ago every clan kept a collection of incantations. Amber and Lucas might fill out their own books to pass on to future Johnsons one day. “Were you serious about creating a vanishing potion?” He settled in the stool.

  The warlock paused from collecting the test-tube rack. “Yes, but you can forget it. Drink this bottle, and you’ll flash right out of here. Do you want to suffer by separating yourself from Amber?”

  He smiled at the idea of distancing himself. But, Lucas spoke true. The spell she placed caused him physical agony when they weren’t together, and the little sample he experienced the other night was like a thousand tiny garden rakes clawing their way out beneath his skin.

  He’d never encountered anything so agonising, and wasn’t inclined for a repeat. “I don’t intend to use the damn thing, just curious about how you created it.”

  Lucas packed the mortar and pestle into the black case. “What makes you think I’ll tell you? You’re a werewolf.”

  “Exactly…I’m a werewolf, not a witch. If you shared your little potion recipe, I can’t do a thing about it, certainly can’t steal the damn thing off you. Besides, aren’t our races hoping for peace? Shouldn’t we at least try to get along?”

  Lucas snorted. “Does this mean you’ll set aside your differences with Amber?”

  Chayton cocked a brow. “One witch at a time, my friend.”

  “Fine, I guess you’re right. Telling you about the potion won’t do any harm, given you can’t perform witchcraft. And to be honest, I’m anxious to share my good news. I’m the first warlock to create this potion.

  Over the years, others tried producing a similar concoction. Some came close, but not quite. I’ve worked relentlessly, even tried using old methods…” He tapped the open spell-book. “...mixed with some new ones. My luck couldn’t have come at a better time.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “We witches like to show off our tricks every year. This baby right here is sure to crown me a winner at the next social event.” Lucas seized the wooden cap next to the sink and corked the flask. “I can’t wait to show the others tonight.”

  The last bit of smoke puffed from the sealed bottle, and the scent drifted past. Chayton scrunched his nose, reminded of an awful medicine his parents tried forcing down his throat when he’d been five and with a high fever. “Are you sure it works?”

  “I’ll have a test-run once it cools, but see how the smoke swirls clockwise within the flask.” He pointed to the bottle. �
�That’s one of the ways I know it’s a success.”

  A strange internal sensation stirred. Chayton leaned into the stool. A knife-like sharpness throbbed beneath his chest, his chin trembled, and he peered at the ceiling, inhaling long and slow. What on earth? Could the fumes be playing with his emotions?

  The warlock locked his briefcase. “Ah…are you crying?”

  Was he? Warm wetness hovered at his jaw. He swiped the single tear with a fist. The droplet streaked his hand. “Whoa! What the hell is in the potion?”

  “Hey, don’t blame my potion for your—”

  “I’m serious. Something is causing this side effect.”

  Lucas rubbed his chin. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.” He swiped at a new tear. Oh, the humiliation. He hadn’t cried since that day in the hospital, mainly because he promised to never cry again after that. This, whatever the hell it was, didn’t count.

  The warlock extracted a pad from the briefcase and scribbled notes. “Can you tell me if you undergo anything else when I return? If there are any other reactions, I’d like to know what I’m in for.”

  What? No instant cure? Damn this, he’d joked about becoming a lab rat, now he suffered the consequences.

  Lucas snagged the briefcase and made for the door. “I’ll be back later,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Whatever.” He trudged to the sink, and turned the tap. Finger-combing his hair back, he splashed his face with cold water, and some drops spilled onto the vinyl floor. A clean glass perched beside the sink, and he topped it to the rim.

  The ache still pulsed, but the tears stopped. He gulped the water, and refilled the glass. “What a joke,” he sighed, unsure how much more he could take living with these witches and their damn spells.

  “Did Lucas leave?” a small voice said behind him.

  He whirled so fast he had to grip the glass from slipping. Amber stood near the counter. Her eyes were shiny and red, same with her nose and cheeks. He frowned. Had she been crying? Dampness lined her hairline. Perhaps she too washed her face. So, he wasn’t the only one affected by the potion. “Yeah, he left. We’re alone.”

  She nodded, lips set in a firm line, and eyes focused on the fruit basket. Maybe he should tell her not to worry about the emotional rollercoaster because the fumes would probably pass. Instead, he kept quiet, unsure if she was affected, or if her sadness transpired for different reasons.

  No, he must be mistaken. This woman didn’t know how to feel. She only knew how to cause pain and misery in others. Yeah, her soul resembled a rotted core, and he would not believe for a second she understood what it meant to suffer.

  “Do you mind leaving the kitchen?” She passed him and opened the cabinet above the stainless steel stove. Her fruity fragrance and something else incomparable wafted from her…a feminine essence all her own. His mouth watered, and his body burned.

  “Why?” Crossing his arms, he ignored the reaction to her scent. He expected her to face him, but she withdrew a saucepan and lid.

  “I’m about to start dinner.” She set the saucepan on the stove. “And you’ll be in my way.”

  Him, in her way? The tension in his jaw nearly broke his teeth. “You’re a hypocrite, you know that.”

  This time she faced him, azure-flame eyes narrowed, and she slapped her hands over her hips. “What are you nagging about, wolf?”

  “For sure my family are concerned about me, and you walk around as if it doesn’t matter.”

  She stilled. Her eyes grew round as if he’d struck her. “Why don’t I write them a letter?” she gritted out. “After all, you and Tristan did the same. Here I’ve been worried sick for the last two weeks.”

  She poked her chest with her index finger. “Waiting day after day for a call, for hope, for the moment I can wrap my arms around my cousin and hold her…” A sob made her choke out the last line.

  Tears ran down her face, and another ache struck his chest, pulsating stronger than before. He bit the inside of his cheek. No way in hell would he cry in front of Amber Johnson.

  “You have no idea what this is like, wondering if she’s hurt, or scared, or still alive. I’ve done everything in my power to find her, and I still feel helpless.” She swiped away the tears, twisted to the sink, and grasped the edge. “Get out, Chayton.” Her voice held no vigour. “Blast the volume on the TV, or whatever. Just get out of my face.”

  He stepped forward, intending to place a comforting hand against her, but swallowed hard. His arm fell by his side as he dismissed the gesture, spun toward the living area, and stormed into the room.

  He grasped the bag with the new clothes, and marched upstairs. No need to hunt for the bathroom when he reached the top because it sat opposite the staircase. Once inside, he slammed the door, and flipped the lock.

  The shower stall sat across the room, near a large obscure window. Chayton tugged off his shirt, and the black material landed on the tiles. He ambled toward the horrible dolphin-print shower curtain and flung it open. Working the zipper of his jeans, he caught sight of a small, dark device alongside a pink comb and hair-ties on the vanity.

  A mobile phone…her phone. As if expecting someone to barge the door off its hinges, he gaped at the thick wood. This might be his only chance. He punched in his friend’s digits and waited.

  “Hello.”

  “Ian, it’s me.”

  “Well, if it isn’t the Big Bad himself. Where the hell are you, man? Your phone goes straight to voicemail.”

  “Listen up,” he whispered, throwing a glance to the locked door. “The damn witch placed me under a spell. I can’t lie or leave her side without experiencing physical pain.”

  “You’ve got to be shitting me! What can I do? Should I tell Len?”

  “No, don’t tell my father about this. Don’t tell anyone unless you know someone who can reverse spells.” It was a long shot.

  “I don’t think so. I’m not going to sit here and do nothing. I’ll leave now and be there—”

  “No,” he rushed out. He would not risk his best friend becoming mixed with this bullshit. “I’m stuck here, regardless. I’ve no choice but to stick this out.”

  “That sucks. Are you being mistreated?” Concern laced Ian’s tone.

  The repercussion of the potion should be considered mistreatment. “Not exactly. They’ve given me a sofa bed, and the witch is downstairs cooking dinner as we speak.”

  “Oh…”

  Chayton recognised the slight trace of humour in his friend’s surprised response.

  “Doesn’t sound too bad. You know, I remember she smelt pretty good, but I never got a good look at her. Is she hot?”

  “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  “Might as well get the most out of the situation…if you know what I mean.”

  “You’re a dick.”

  Ian’s laughter echoed. “Hey, buddy, you had this coming. Who cares what some ancient vampire made you promise? You don’t mess with witches, period.”

  Chayton fumbled with the hairdryer cord connected to the wall. “Yeah well, wait until this is over. Amber won’t know what hit her.”

  “I recognise that tone. You have a plan.”

  He released the coiled cable and leaned against the vanity. “Let’s say I won’t be coming home alone. I’m taking the witch with me.” See how she liked being kept prisoner.

  “Chay, you’re not going to do something dangerous are you?”

  He hoped not. First he’d have to find a way to take her while avoiding one of her spells. Chanting in riddles must be her specialty, so maybe he’d bind her mouth first. “I haven’t figured out all the details, but this woman has always gotten everything her way. Now it ends.”

  “Why are you so…oh shit! She’s the girl. She’s that Amber.”

  “Yeah, but she doesn’t recognise me.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah, man, I’m sure.”

  “Be careful, and don’t worry about thi
ngs here. I’ll tell your dad you’re visiting a friend, and everything is fine with the gym. The renovators for the new juice bar are due in sometime next week.”

  “Thanks, buddy. I owe you one.”

  “In fact, you owe me two. Don’t forget I missed a good wrestling show to track your little witch. Have fun,” Ian crooned and hung up.

  He placed the phone on the vanity, removed his jeans and boxers, and ducked in for a quick shower. Apple-scented shampoo sat in the plastic caddy with the pomegranate body wash, all female products and all Amber’s. He shrugged, grabbing the bottle. He disliked the idea of sharing her scent, but had no choice.

  After he showered and towel-dried, he plucked a pair of shorts and a red pinstripe shirt from the bag of clothes by the door. A shudder ran through him at his horrid reflection. “I look like Waldo,” he muttered grimly. When they leave here, he’d make sure to provide her with a bunch of tasteless clothes, too.

  The clink of pots and bubbling water resonated when he made his way downstairs and into the eating area. He sat at the round dinner table opposite the countertop. Warmth filled the room, and the scent of chicken drifted in the air.

  At the stove, Amber poured steaming liquid out of a large pot and into two bowls. She placed the bowl at the end of the counter. Her eyes didn’t seem so bloodshot, and her puffy, red nose was also gone. “Take one.”

  He rose from his seat. Carrots, onions, peas, and shreds of white meat floated in the hot, golden broth. “Is this chicken soup?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’m not sure I should eat this. You poisoned it, right?”

  She pointed to her own bowl. “I’m eating the same thing, and I don’t plan on killing you. I need you.”

  I need you. Who would have thought he’d hate hearing those words from a woman? He sipped a small spoonful and would have swallowed if the pungent taste did not sting his tongue. Spitting the hot liquid into the bowl, he gagged. “Oh, you are trying to kill me! What the hell did you cook?”